In the end, the man slid the bill-fold away into his breast pocket, and held out a hand to Long.

“Thank you,” he said. And then he closed the door of the car, which negotiated the streets from the heights to Chinatown. The driver stopped before the greengrocer's, even getting out to hold the door for them as if they were white, or rich. A very worried Mah bustled onto the pavement, coming to a dead halt at the sight of the uniformed driver. The man tipped his hat to her, got into his vehicle, and drove away before Long could search his pockets for a tip.

The next afternoon, while Tom was off with a delivery for the grocer's and Mah was scrubbing shirts at the laundry down the street, there came a knock at the door of the apartment. Long, who had ached all day as if all his broken bones had come to pieces instead of just the one, laboriously got to his feet and answered it. The blond man filled the door-way.

“The driver gave me your address,” he said to Long. “How's the shoulder?”

“It is nothing.”

“The doctor said you'd broken it last summer, along with a couple other bones.”

“That is true. They healed, this will too. I trust your wife is well?”

“She's fine, thanks to you.” He simply stood there, leaving Long no option but to invite him in. The house, as always, was spotless, but having sat on the man's leather sofa and drunk soup from the man's gold-rimmed bowls, Long knew that the man would see nothing but the poverty.

But to his surprise, the man's surveying glance betrayed no distaste. If anything, he seemed appreciative of the simple ink drawing on the wall, and of the soft quilt lying across the chair which Mah had laid over her husband's legs before she left that morning.

“Would you care for tea?” Long offered.

“Thank you, I'd like a cup.” The man seemed curious at the pale beverage, which reminded Long that Westerners polluted their tea with sugar and the milk from cows' udders.

“Would you like me to get some milk?” Long offered, wondering where on earth he would find the stuff in Chinatown.

But the man shook his head. “Don't worry, I sometimes take it black.” And when he had taken a sip, he added, “Actually, this is nice without milk. Refreshing.” He drank the cup, accepted a second, and when it was cradled in his big hands, he got around to the reason for his presence.

“Mr Long,” he started, then paused. “Am I saying your name right?”

“Yes, that is fine,” Long reassured him, surprised. It was a question he'd never been asked before—and indeed, it was close enough, considering that the man's tongue was unaccustomed to a tonal language.